"The Provas are nearly over, son. Already there have been four. If all goes well in the last two, you will be fantino for the Contrada of the Wave, and tomorrow your name will be inscribed in the archives, officially."
Giorgio managed an anxious nod. He waited for the General's next words.
"Thus far she has not won a single Prova." Something in the man's voice told Giorgio that he was in no way displeased.
"Tonight," he went on, "is the banquet before the Palio. As you know, it is the great meeting of our people. You must come and you will be seated between Captain Tortorelli and myself. Your bodyguards will bring you at the hour of eight. From you only a short speech will be expected."
"A speech! Me? A speech!" Giorgio grabbed a handful of Gaudenzia's mane as if he might topple off. The bodyguards came up then to accompany him to the stable. His lips moved drily. "A speech I must make," he mumbled in deep misery.
All that afternoon Giorgio struggled with pencil and paper. As the result of his labors he produced only three small sentences. These he copied neatly on a clean sheet and folded it into the breast pocket of his good suit.
Promptly at the stated hour Pinotto, Carlo, Enzio, and Nello led him toward the church of the Wave. He felt like a prisoner on his way to execution, as they wound in single file through the narrow streets, through the arch of San Guiseppe, then through the doors of the church itself, and down the wide, winding staircase into another world deep under the sanctuary.
Giorgio stood gaping at the splendor. The banquet hall was high-vaulted and vast. Already many people were seated in their places at the rows of tables, but some were still standing in clusters, deep in conversation. With the entrance of the burly guards towering over the slight figure of Giorgio, all faces turned in his direction.
"Look! Our fantino! He comes!"